Eighteen

Oh my God. It's November. How can it be November? I'm not ready for November. Logically, it cannot be later than September. It just can't.

But it is! It is November, which means that I will be in Paris in 18 days. And I have nothing left to do but pack. After weeks of anxiety I have my corrected passport, which no longer identifies me as male; I have my long stay visa with a picture in which I look hilariously distraught; I have disposed of my apartment to a nice-seeming young man; I have new boots (my extensive and frantic Google searching of "what do I wear in Paris" revealed to me that Parisians wear boots. I know); and most definitively of all, I have a plane ticket.

I can't decide whether I'm more thrilled or terrified that it's coming up so soon, so I think I'll just sit here and tremble quietly while analyzing to death my new address on Google maps.

Bisous (I hear Parisians end their emails this way)